


Anya's Voice

by alyxpoe



Series: The Homeless Network [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part One is from Anya's POV. Part Two, mostly John's because there were things about the case Anya would not know yet. I apologize if it is hard to follow, but it was the only way I could make it work in my head.</p></blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One is from Anya's POV. Part Two, mostly John's because there were things about the case Anya would not know yet. I apologize if it is hard to follow, but it was the only way I could make it work in my head.

Out of all the things he says, the only thing I understand is that he says his name is Thomas, but I do not wholly believe him. All I know for certain about him is that he is older than Momma was, has short brown hair, blue eyes and when he comes to this room there is no pain like with the others. Thomas doesn’t hurt me; he often does strange things like last night.

I was still in so much pain from the last one that I forgot to listen closely to the voices in the halls, some louder than others—not all of them speak Russian, I also heard what could be Italian and the English like Thomas. I could talk, _before._ I could understand. I knew that being outside all the time wasn’t a good thing, following the others when they showed me how to sit quietly outside the shop where the owner would sometimes give us tea if we didn’t cause too much trouble. People talked _to_ me, then. Until the other people came.

Now, I’ve forgotten how to use language, any of them. I know Thomas is talking to me but I cannot answer back. It’s almost like I don’t understand any of his words, like they are coming through to me from a very long way away. The only thing more incomprehensible is the way he stretches out beside me in this smelly bed; he must not be a very tall man because his body is only a bit larger than my own. I worry when he puts his arms around me and pulls me in close to him. He never takes off his clothes. I hope they aren’t hurting him, too.

Thomas has been coming here to this room every so many days, at least I think they are days, but I don’t know. Every time he does the same thing, never touching me any other way. It is the only time there is no pain, no hunger, no angry-sounding words. Just…whatever it is. Sometimes it makes me remember Momma, but mostly she is nothing more than a dream I can no longer see. When I do sleep, there’s nothing but darkness.

I am sure I will die here, long before I ever figure out how to get out.

So many hours, there must be days and nights, but I don’t see anything at all. They believe me mute since I stopped talking before I was let in this room, already hurting and afraid. Words make me afraid, so there’s no point in using them, really. I saw a tapestry in a book long ago when Momma was…well, when she _was_. That is my life now, a tapestry with useless, muddy-colored threads surely no one would miss if it was balled up and thrown out with the rubbish. I want to cry. Somehow Thomas must understand this because he whispers things to me and I want to thank him for the kindness, but if I make noise now I will never stop. I would scream until they have to shoot me.

At least when the men come to this room it is a little while that I am not all by myself.

Some of them are angry and see me the way I see the useless tapestry. They do the business quickly and leave. I don’t matter. Others want to talk but I can’t since I don’t remember how, they stop trying and get on with things; there’s a few who’ve gotten angry. Out of those, some try different languages…a few of those I’ve understood the words but not the meanings. How could I?

All of them, _all_ of them take what they’ve paid for. I know what is happening here, I’ve heard enough to comprehend. Some of them grow angrier still, especially when they turn on the lightbulb over the bed and look at me.

I never see the same man twice.

Except for Thomas.

I don’t think even he sleeps much in this place. He never lets go, all night. That’s alright, I think.

I wish I understood his words. They are so much different from the others. Sometimes when there is still daylight left, he takes a tiny square thing out of his trousers and speaks very quietly into it. His words are short and cut-off like he is making notes of something for himself.

I think about this while his arms are around me. The old blanket with the holes in it separates us. My nightgown is the same and not very warm; I long to tell him how thankful I am for his body heat though he never gets under the blanket with me.

Thomas is the only person in a very long time who’s stayed more than few minutes with me.

I like to pretend he’s protecting me in some way and I want to ask him about the other girls…but I can’t. I want to believe that some of them got away. Perhaps the men who _pay_ aren’t so angry with the ones who will talk to them. Elise, she was my friend once and she cried on the truck that brought us here. I could talk to her, then. They said they would look after us. They did, I said to her, things will be better.

I lied to her.

 

Another night passes by. I know it is daytime because Thomas is gone and the old woman with the keys opens the door and there is light behind her. Another girl, younger than me, is with her and she gives me soup and bread and water. I know better than to refuse. She won’t let me use the toilet if I do. I hate the blindfold, but I prefer it over the bucket.

The old woman stands over by the wall and watches me clean myself from the basin I get after I eat the soup. I’ll save my bread for later, she lets me do that. The old woman never says anything at all. Nothing about the night or the days or the lack of _stuff_ to clean up as is normal after the men come to this room in the night. I can see things more clearly on these days when there is no pain so when I look at her face…but I pretend not to notice how tired she looks to me. She gives me a nod when I am done, says something to the other girl and leaves me alone with an old but clean nightgown and my small meal for later.

I am sure I am too disgusting to look at, that’s why I’m not allowed out of this room. I sit on the floor because I hate the bed. It’s much easier for the cleaning woman who comes later to change the sheets this way, but she never comes after Thomas visits me. I don’t know why. That’s what he is doing, I think, visiting me.

Eventually my door opens again and I spend the time with the stranger thinking of Thomas and wondering what he would say if I could tell him that sometimes I remember his words and their meanings in the oddest moments.

 

I don’t see Thomas again for a while but then he is there and he is saying things and there’s noise all around. The door to this room is pushed open and there’s someone tall there, I can’t see him but his hair is like a dark halo and I can feel the anger from him. It is different, somehow, not like the anger from the _men_. His voice is deep, so deep that it bounces around the room. There’s a lot of yelling and banging in the rooms around this one but in here, there’s Thomas and me and this very angry dark angel.

Thomas puts his arm around my shoulders and the two men talk over my head. The tall man calls him by another name, one I don’t recognize and their hands touch and so do their eyes. It is all quite fascinating but when I realize that Thomas is leading me towards the door the world goes funny and then there is nothing but blackness and silence.


	2. Part Two

“John, she’s alright.” Sherlock strides through the door, his eyes effortlessly sweeping over the gaggle of machines that surround the girl lying amongst the tubes and pillows there.

“I think she will be, yeah.” John agrees, holds open his arms and thinks about being almost metaphorically torn in half between the doctor who wants to remain at vigil for his young patient and the undercover man whose heart is so full that he wants nothing more than to hold his lover close and never let go; hide his head in Sherlock’s shoulder and blank out the cruel injustices of the world.

“Did you find anything?” he asks, pulling back from Sherlock but not letting go of his arms.

Sherlock nods and gently tugs himself loose in order to drag another chair over next to the one John is occupying.

“Her name is Anya Kabinokov, after her mother died, she and her brother, Christopher, were left alone and they wandered about the streets. Christopher is four years older than his sister.”

“Where has he been all this time?” John queries, frowning.

“Juvenile delinquent, eventually placed with a foster family a few weeks ago.”

“Our client, Chris? The sixteen-year old?”

“Yes, John, surely you realized when Mycroft got involved and requested your help with the undercover bit…”

John shakes his head. “It never occurred to me, Sherlock, even when I was there. God, I’ve missed you these past three weeks.” He reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s fingers between his own.

The detective hums lightly in the back of his throat, “and I, you, John.”

They are quiet for a few moments, John scratches at the back of his neck. He’ll be glad to get the dye washed out of his hair, for sure. “What was he picked up for?”

“Christopher was picked up for petty theft. Caught at the pawnbrokers trying to sell a stolen watch. He told the arresting officer he was only trying to get money to feed himself and his sister, they didn’t really believe him at that point, thought he was a mule, without his protection Anya was taken right off the street. He was fourteen.”

John purses his lips, lets a hiss of air pass between them. “She would have been ten years old, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods again, allowing John a moment to look away.

“I’d kill them all, you know.”

Sherlock eyes John’s tightening fists, choosing not to answer, searching for words yet after all this time, some things defy them. “We got them all out.”

“We did,” John agrees, staring at Anya’s pale features and thin body made even smaller by the heavy blanket draped over her. He sniffs and raises his head up a little.

Sherlock knows well that sometimes John needs his space to deal with his emotions. Tonight, later, he will comfort his body and his heart, but for now, he can allow John _time_.

A few minutes later, both men turn towards a soft tap on the door. John stands, opens it and meets Mycroft’s even gaze with his own by raising his head slightly.

“The matter has been dealt with,” Mycroft informs them, his eyes never leaving John’s. He doesn’t even need to hear the words he’s sure John has spoken because they are written clearly in every line on his face, the tension in is spine and the new scuff on the toe of his right shoe. “Your help is appreciated more than you are aware.”

John steps back, as always more than a little surprised when Mycroft goes out of his way to compliment him. “You’re welcome,” he says as a gangly, blonde-haired teenage boy ducks into the room around Mycroft without a word.

For a few moments, the three men watch Christopher as he hugs his sister and plants himself at her side, looking back at them quickly as if daring them to try and move him. When nothing of the sort is offered, he gently takes her fingers in his own and murmurs to her in Russian.

It is obvious to John after a bit that Mycroft and Sherlock understand enough of what the youth is saying to follow along. John needs a break, though, so he grasps Sherlock’s cuff in his hand and heads for the door.

“Mycroft, do you mind?” John asks, indicating the empty chairs with a tilt of his chin. Anya isn’t really his patient; he felt that he should stay since there seemed to be no one else.

Mycroft nods, “Not at all Doctor Watson, take the time you need.”

“Thank you. We’ll be back in…” he says, catching Sherlock’s eye, “about two hours. I need to get cleaned up.”

*

John is so relieved to be home that he leans against the tile and closes his eyes, letting the hot water cascade down his back. Being under cover is generally not his forte and everything about this case was difficult, emotionally draining and more challenging to rationalize than war. After a few minutes of soaking in the heat, he squeezes shampoo out into his hand and scrubs at his hair, by now detesting the fake color and the reasons it was necessary in the first place.

In what seems like no time at all, there is a lean, solid chest pressing against his back, a gentle dragging of teeth on his neck. Broad palms skate up his side, across his belly to finally rest on his hips, pulling him backwards into Sherlock. Neither man is aroused yet the simple action of being touched makes John oddly boneless so he goes with it and sags against his partner. Wordlessly, they move apart and clean themselves up. It is soon apparent to John that Sherlock has been just as on edge these past three weeks as he has. There’s nothing for it, he thinks, as he raises up on his toes to press their lips together.

They finish their respective cleaning-up routines and are soon standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to sound off, both of them in jeans and button-downs, dark burgundy for Sherlock, navy blue for John.

“What will happen to them, to her?” John queries as the kettle whistles.

Sherlock pushes him towards the chairs and busies himself with the tea. “Most of the girls have family who have been searching for them. Though there will be no one to stand trial against, there will be an official ruling of the case that will allow them to receive counselling and such.”

John nods, accepting the hot cuppa with a wan smile. Now that he’s home, he realizes how exhausted he is. He stretches a little, rolling his head from side to side then rubbing his bare feet against the linoleum. Sherlock pulls his chair around beside him, pressing his leg against John’s.

“What about Anya and Christopher?”

Sherlock regards him for a few heartbeats, letting one hand rest on John’s knee. “Christopher’s foster family is willing to take in his sister to keep them together, but only on the condition that he stays out of trouble with the law.”

The quiet affection plus the warm brew in his hand is doing wonders in calming John’s mind. “Think he can do it?”

“I don’t _think_ , John, I know. I’ve given him several jobs in the past week, all of which he has completed in a reasonable amount of time with better than average results.”

John cocks an eyebrow at his detective, a bit of a smile touches his lips and he grasps Sherlock’s hand. “You kept him informed?”

“I did. Couldn’t let him just rush in there, he would have blown your cover.”

“That wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“No, John, they were armed to the teeth in there.” Sherlock sets his empty mug down on the table with a light thud as if making his point.

“Ah,” John says, finishing the last of his tea.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else about it and goes about collecting their shoes and socks. He slips into his and waits while John does the same. “Shall we?”

“Yes, I’d like to see if she’s come ‘round yet.” John snags his wallet and pocket things from the table as Sherlock snaps off the lights.

*

Before they can step into the lift, they are greeted by Christopher who is holding a pair of shopping bags.

“Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes,” Christopher says gravely, his attention obviously elsewhere.

“How is she, Christopher?” John asks while Sherlock presses the button to send the lift down.

In lieu of an answer, however, Christopher holds up the bags. “I grabbed her some clothes, but I wasn’t too sure about the under-things, you know.”

John takes the bag held up in his direction, thinking he’s being asked for help. Inside he finds two shirts that look to be about the right size, a pair of grey flannel bottoms and socks. He nods, agreeing that Christopher has done well.

“The lady at the store also showed me some underwear, it was strange but I know she needs them.” Christopher announces almost under his breath as they step into the lift. There is something proud in Christopher’s bearing now, a thousand percent better than the unkempt child with the wild eyes who showed up on their doorstep almost a month ago with a story and a faded photograph of a little girl.

“She still hasn’t spoken,” Christopher states quietly.

“She said nothing to me, anytime I was there.” John agrees.

“According to my information, Anya hasn’t spoken to anyone since the day she was kidnapped.” Sherlock adds, his expression turned inward.

John thinks about Harry as they ride to up to Anya’s room, glad of Sherlock’s snap decision to take Christopher’s case and even more grateful of the Holmes ability to see the bigger picture. Christopher settles himself on his sister’s bed, opening the sacks and speaking to her in a gentle undertone.

Mycroft leaves them with a few words and a nod, letting them know she’s been asleep the entire time they’ve been gone. John wants to question him about Christopher’s foster family; before he can do so, however, Mycroft has slipped out the door and an older couple appears on the threshold.

Sherlock has moved into the corner, where he stands observing them all. From the bed, Christopher greets the couple while John offers his chair so that they might sit together.

“I’m glad you came,” Christopher says, not turning around. The thick sound of gratitude in his voice is apparent to everyone.

“Christopher, we were so glad to hear your sister was found,” the ginger-haired woman states honestly.

The gray-haired man beside her rests his arm on her shoulders and regards the teenager who is still leaning away from them. “We would never turn her away.”

It seems to be what Christopher is waiting for, an answer to a long-ago asked question. He nods sharply and when he turns to them, his eyes are shining with unshed tears. “She’s going to be alright,” he whispers, his eyes finding John’s.

“It is going to be a long road, but I think she will be. Your sister is strong,” Sherlock rumbles. The woman startles as if seeing the detective for the first time.

“I agree, Christopher,” John allows. He leans against the doorframe, still feeling the weight of the case, even now.

Christopher regards them wordlessly, brown eyes alight with an inner fire. “Sam and Daphne, this is Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes.”

“We want to thank you for helping him.” Daphne addresses both of them with a turn of her head. Sherlock accepts her gratitude quietly, his eyes on the bed where Anya is moving a little.

John frowns, thinking the detective is being rude, then he follows Sherlock’s line of sight. The little girl sits up slowly, blinking and taking everything in. He’s ready to go and find her doctor, but when her gaze finds him, he feels like he cannot move. She raises her hand and points at him, her expression filled with what he hopes isn’t trepidation. Knowing what has happened to her, he hopes she remembers him enough to know that he wasn’t one of _them_. The thought of her being frightened of him because of that fills him with more emotion than he can name, though rage is at the top of the list.

“She wants you,” Christopher states, slipping down of the bed and gesturing for John to come closer. He only moves away from his sister a fraction to allow the older man near.

Anya regards him warily then holds out her hand. John grasps it lightly in his own, afraid to move too quickly or get too close, though he is forced to lean into her space a little where her lips move.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

Anya shakes her head, her eyes, like her brother’s, blazing with intelligence. John is comforted by this more than a little. Though he is no psychiatrist, he can clearly see the inner strength Sherlock mentioned earlier. She parts her lips, swipes at them with her tongue and seems to make up her mind about something.

“Thank you,” she manages to get out before Christopher all but tackles her in his effort to wrap his arms around her. There’s a slight groan and the teenager begins to weep while Anya watches John back away from them.

Daphne sniffs and Sam pulls her tight against him. John shakes their hands and moves towards the door, satisfied that he can leave now.

Sherlock steps through the door first, causing John to walk into him. He wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and they stand that way for a moment until John nudges him away. Sherlock runs his fingers lightly against John’s cheek; John offers up a watery smile.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
